A Talent for Trouble (5 page)

Mrs. Brown eyed the massive amount of fabric in Felicia's hand. “I do have a cousin who works in the theater district. He's constantly lamenting the dismal state of their budget. I imagine he would be thrilled to receive your old garments, and I would be happy to furnish you with his address.”

She'd apparently been garbed in outfits best suited for the theater.

She managed to nod, which sent Mrs. Brown hurrying over to a desk, rummaging through it for a moment until she finally located a piece of paper. She took a moment to scribble something down, walked back to Felicia, and handed her the paper, taking the orange gown from her in return. “I'll send this along with your order so you won't have to lug it around, but before
you go, would you care to show Miss Watson the gown you've chosen for the ball?”

Agatha frowned. “What ball?”

“The ball Mrs. Beckett is holding for Zayne,” Felicia reminded her.

“Oh, that ball.” Agatha's expression turned somewhat glum, but then she drew in a breath and practically stomped across the room, coming to a stop in front of the rack that held Felicia's new clothing. She began to sort through the garments, exclaiming every now and then over the cut of a gown, or the color, but then her hand stilled right before she plucked out a gown of brilliant red and shook it in Felicia's direction.

“I'm going to assume this gown has been hung here by mistake.”

Felicia frowned. “That's what I'm wearing to the ball.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

Felicia eyed the wispy bit of silk Agatha was still shaking at her and smiled. “Not at all. I've come to the conclusion red is a wonderful color for me. Mrs. Brown believes it makes my eyes sparkle.”

“It does,” Mrs. Brown added with a nod. “And it fits her form to perfection.”

“I don't think you're helping me,” Felicia muttered as she glanced at Agatha, who was now staring back at her as if she'd suddenly acquired two heads.

“Too right you are,” Mrs. Brown exclaimed before she consulted a watch pinned to her sleeve. “My, would you look at the time. I've almost missed lunch.” She hurried across the room, set Felicia's old gown on a table, and plucked up a hat. “I must thank you once again, Miss Murdock, for your order today, and . . . best of luck to you at the ball, and . . .” She shot a look to Agatha, snapped her mouth shut, strode to the door, and disappeared a second later.

“You cannot wear this gown.”

Felicia moved to Agatha's side, took the gown from her, and hung it back on the rack. “There's nothing wrong with it.”

“I disagree. For one, it's red, and for two, well, it seems to be missing a bodice.”

“It's not missing a bodice. It's simply a little low-cut. I'm quite certain there will be other ladies at the ball, younger and more appealing ladies at that, who will be wearing similar styles. I'm an old spinster. No one will even notice me.” She smiled. “Besides, it's the off-season. Most members of society are languishing at their summer homes, enjoying the sun and sea, so they won't even be in attendance.”

“Oh, please, this is a Beckett ball. Everyone will come back to enjoy it.” Agatha planted her hands on her hips. “All the sticklers for propriety will be there, and I can guarantee you that the talk of the evening won't center on the fact that Zayne is finally going off to join his soon-to-be fiancée, Miss Helena Collins. No, talk will center on you, no matter your proclamation in regard to your spinster status. Honestly, Felicia, spinsters don't wear bright red gowns, and they certainly don't possess a remarkable figure such as yours—a figure, I must add, that no one is even aware you possess.”

“The gown I wore yesterday afternoon showed off my figure” was all Felicia could think to respond.

Agatha arched a brow. “Did it?”

“You didn't notice?”

“Forgive me, but I was more concerned regarding your mood, and over the fact that Grayson was so obviously put out with you. I didn't happen to notice the curves you've been hiding for years.”

“Grayson might have noticed.”

Agatha's mouth went slack. “He did?”

“He was rendered somewhat mute when he first saw me at my
house, and then, when he did speak, his voice was remarkably high.” She bit her lip. “Although, he might simply have been surprised I was wearing two different shoes, my hair looked like a rat's nest, and I told him and my mother I was going to be Clara for the rest of the day.”

“Ah, hmm” was all Agatha seemed capable of saying for a moment. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can't fathom why you'd declare yourself a Clara for a day, but an explanation regarding that troubling matter will have to wait.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, was your decision to purchase a red gown influenced at all by what Grayson might think?”

Needing a moment to craft a response to that rather uncomfortable question, Felicia headed toward a mirror hanging on the wall and took a moment to secure her new hat on her head. For a second she admired its navy base paired with a single white ribbon wrapped around the body and not one bow in sight, but then she heard the sound of Agatha's toe tapping all too impatiently on the floor and forced herself to turn, having no idea how to reply.

Had the thought of Grayson and how he might react to seeing her in the red gown come to mind the moment she'd spotted the gown hanging on a dress form?

Yes, it had, but she didn't understand why, nor had she taken the time to ponder the matter, which meant she wasn't prepared to discuss it with Agatha.

She loved the lady dearly, had enjoyed getting to know her better the past year, but Agatha was a meddler—everyone knew that. If Agatha discovered she was even remotely attracted to Grayson—not that she was admitting she was—well, that would simply never do.

“I think Grayson's interested in you.”

Felicia blinked rapidly out of her thoughts. “Come again?”

“He allowed you to drive his prized horses.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Eliza told me he's never trusted a woman with the reins.”

“Nor will he ever do so again, judging by his reaction to my driving.”

Agatha's eyes turned cunning. “It was quite chivalrous of him to escort you yesterday over to Eliza's—very telling, don't you think?”

“There was nothing
telling
about it,” Felicia argued. “You and Eliza badgered him into it, and don't even think about arguing that point.”

“There was only a small amount of badgering involved, and perhaps a bit of toe stomping.” She smiled but then sobered. “You need to reconsider your gown choice for the ball.”

“It's a very fashionable piece, Agatha. I know you'll find this hard to believe, but before I turned delusional and thought my life was meant to be spent as a minister's wife, I used to be highly particular about fashion. I need to make changes in my life, and one of those changes—not one of the largest changes, I know—is that I'm going to dress to please myself.

“That dress pleases me. It's bold, but not in a forward way, and the color makes me feel feminine. If it causes a few tongues to wag, so be it.”

“Please tell me you're not planning to continue on as Clara in order to get the tongues wagging.” A frisson of awareness swept over her, the masculine voice causing her to stiffen.

She did not have to turn to know who was standing behind her, because there was only one person she knew in New York who possessed such a distinctive, and slightly intriguing, British accent.

What in the world was Grayson doing at B. Altman's?

He was supposed to be extremely put out with her, but for some unknown reason, his tone seemed more amused than annoyed.

She drew in a steadying breath and turned. The sight of Grayson lounging oh so casually against the doorframe, looking every inch the aristocrat, caused the unusual reaction of her breath catching in her throat.

Her reaction to the man was ridiculous. Granted, he was extremely attractive, especially when he grinned—the grin bringing into sharp attention the two dimples her mother made mention of rather often. Her gaze drifted to his jacket, and she found no fault with the impeccable cut of gray, or with the waistcoat underneath, or even with the subtle dark tie that was tied to perfection around his neck. Her gaze lowered, taking in the pinstriped trousers and stopping at his shoes, unable to help but notice their glossy shine.

He'd obviously secured the services of a well-trained valet since he'd come to America, which explained his immaculate appearance, but it didn't explain why he was grinning. She lifted her head and, sure enough, he was still at it.

What was wrong with him?

They'd parted on less than amicable terms. She knew full well—even if no one else appeared to realize it—that he wasn't the type of person to blithely set aside a grudge, especially considering he seemed to believe she'd almost caused him a horrible death due to her driving abilities.

She finally realized he was waiting for a response, given that he was staring back at her with a trace of expectation in his eyes. “I've decided Clara is only to be brought out in extenuating circumstances, and since there's nothing extenuating about shopping, she's not around today.”

“Well, we can thank the good Lord for that.”

Funny, but it almost seemed as if there was now a touch of surliness edging his tone. Oddly enough, that thought had her feeling slightly better. A surly Grayson she could handle. “What are you doing here?”

Grayson pushed away from the doorframe and stopped right in front of her. His nearness caused her pulse to once again go galloping off through her veins.

It was a peculiar feeling, and one she didn't happen to care for in the least.

“A Mrs. Brown found me wandering aimlessly amongst the dresses and took pity on me, telling me I would find you in here.” Grayson took a step back and looked her up and down.

A sliver of disappointment slid over her when he didn't bother to remark about her new gown or hat but simply nodded, just once, and continued on with what he'd been saying.

“She assured me it was acceptable for me to enter what can only be described as a feminine domain because, in addition to telling me both of you were respectably gowned, she felt there might be a need for a distraction, and apparently I fit that bill.” He grinned yet again. “So, why do the two of you need a distraction, and more importantly, why are tongues going to wag?”

Felicia blew out a breath. “Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to eavesdrop?”

“Hasn't anyone ever told you that if you plan on saying something you don't want overheard, you should make sure the door's shut?”

Her pulse slowed immediately. He might be an attractive gentleman who dressed to perfection, but he was also irritating, arrogant, and far too sure of himself.

Knowing full well it would hardly be productive to continue bantering with him, she decided her best option was to keep him a little defensive. “You never said what you're doing here, and I must confess I'm a little surprised you'd seek me out. I was under the impression you were annoyed with me because of what happened with your carriage yesterday.”

“Just to be clear, it is not a carriage; it is a phaeton, which you
had no business even attempting to drive, limited as your abilities obviously are. As for what I'm doing here, Eliza sent me.”

It seemed to her that although his lips were still curved in somewhat of a grin, his voice was now sounding distinctively surly, proving once and for all that underneath his pleasant and affable appearance, there really did lie the soul of a grumpy gentleman.

His grumpiness begged the question of why he'd agreed to Eliza's request in the first place.

“That was sweet of Eliza to be concerned about me, but I assure you, I'm fine.”

“How lovely, but she didn't send me after you.” He turned to Agatha. “I've been all over the city trying to track
you
down. I finally stopped at Felicia's house as a last resort, and that's when I learned you were here.”

Agatha frowned. “Has something happened?”

Grayson returned the frown. “You're supposed to be distressed.”

“Eliza told you I was distressed?”

“Yes, and she also gave me strict instructions that I was to”—he held up his hand and began to tick items off his fingers—“improve your spirits”—one finger went up—“charm you out of your bad mood”—another finger went up—“and put myself entirely at your disposal.”

“Eliza sent
you
to complete those arduous tasks?”

“Really, Agatha, you wound me. Do you not think I'm up for coaxing you out of your gloomy mood?”

“I'm not in a gloomy mood.”

“Since I've traveled all over the city in order to cheer you up, you're going to have to humor me and get in a gloomy mood.”

“But I don't feel gloomy.”

Grayson quirked a brow. “You're not upset that Zayne is moving out west to join his Miss Collins?”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Really, everyone believing I'm distraught over Zayne Beckett is getting a bit ridiculous. We're simply friends. He's the brother of my dear friend Arabella. Did I at one time suffer a small infatuation for him? Yes, I did—as I've admitted time and time again. I've also insisted, on numerous occasions, that I have come to my senses. Zayne's intentions toward Miss Collins were formed years ago, and since he's determined to carry through with those intentions, I've firmly pushed aside any romantic affection I once felt for the gentleman. I'm happy for him and wish him nothing but the best for his future.”

Felicia sucked in a sharp breath as yet another one of her flaws came into glaring evidence. She'd been so consumed with her own problems in life that she'd not even realized Agatha might be in need of a bit of cheering up.